


Ride Along

by vaguenotion



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Am i right ladies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Strong Language, Varian whump, hector's the villain, this is a freewrite and i apologize, who needs a coffee shop au when you can have a cop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguenotion/pseuds/vaguenotion
Summary: In their youth, Quirin, Adira, and Hector were members of a crime syndicate known as The Brotherhood. Together, they swore an oath to get out and leave that life behind.Years later, the three of them are officers for the Old Corona Sheriff's Department. When it's revealed that one of them never actually left the Brotherhood, it's a race against time to catch him before anyone gets hurt.And Quirin's son, Varian, gets caught right in the middle.-Not the modern AU we deserve, but probably the modern AU y'all need, given how thirsty everyone is for Varian whump.
Relationships: Adira & Varian (Disney), Hector & Varian (Disney: Tangled), Quirin & Varian (Disney)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 334





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1 - Needed a break from the other fic I have in this fandom.  
> 2 - Got put in a walking cast and have been laid up all day watching Live PD.  
> 3 - I got carried away writing the part about their kitchen. I know. I apologize. I'm not deleting any of it.
> 
> (4 - this fic is entirely for me and i'm okay with that)

When Quirin’s phone began to buzz across the surface of the meeting room table, he knew exactly who was calling. He didn’t need the caller ID, or the photo of the caller taken a year ago at a department baseball game. After everything he had learned that morning, he knew exactly who it was.

“Hector,” he said by way of greeting when he answered the phone. Quirin’s voice was hard, steely to disguise the small amount of hope he felt deep in his stomach. Hope that maybe, this was all a misunderstanding. That maybe Internal Affairs had gotten it wrong.

_ “Sounds like you’ve heard,” _ Hector answered. It sounded as though he were driving.

“Tell me they’re wrong, Hector,” Quirin implored, rolling his free hand in and out of a fist. His superior officer, his partner Adira, the investigators from Internal Affairs--they all watched him closely. 

_ “Sorry, brother. It’s not personal.” _

Emotions bottlenecked in Quirin’s throat. Not personal? How can this be anything  _ but _ personal? With great difficulty, he swallowed them down and took a deep breath. “Turn yourself in, Hector. I’ve known you my entire life--we can work something out.”

_ “Work something out,” _ Hector repeated incredulously.  _ “After all you’ve done to the Brotherhood? I’ll tell you what, Quirin. You give back all the money you confiscated, and I’ll cooperate. I’d be more than happy to turn over some names.” _

Anger flared in his chest, and he had to take a steadying breath to keep as much of it out of his voice as possible. “You know I can’t do that. I don’t know what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, but don’t make it worse for yourself.”

He could hear Hector laugh distantly, like the man had lowered the phone from his face to do so. Even if it was muffled, Quirin knew that tone: Hector was angry, and desperate, and unhinged.  _ “It’s my life on the line, Quirin. That money for my life. I’m getting it back one way or the other.” _

“Don’t do anything stupid, Hector,” Quirin stressed, eyes flickering to Adira. Her expression was shuttered, but the anger was clear in her posture. She was feeling this just as much as he was. 

_ “No, Quirin, it’s you who should be careful. There are plenty of ways to get that money back.” _

“Hector, I don’t want to have to-”

_ “Your choice. Give it back, or I’m coming to get it. And you won’t like how I do it.” _

With that, the line went dead.

-

The kitchen in their home was No Man’s Land, a neutral territory between Varian’s realm (the basement) and his father’s realm (the living room and garage) that they only ventured into to get food and ignore the growing pile of junk mail on the kitchen table. 

On the odd occasion, this veritable DMZ would play host to a game of cards, an unexpected shared meal, or a more serious conversation. These meetings were something that both Varian and his father referred to as a “UN Summit”. An opportunity for two completely different people with two completely different lives to sit down and negotiate trade agreements and international house law. And sometimes, eat pizza.

This was not what the kitchen used to be. Once upon a time, the kitchen had been the center of the house. Varian’s mother would work at the kitchen table, the keys of her laptop clicking steadily while the crockpot cooked away on the island counter. They would eat family dinners there, would decorate christmas cookies at the counter, would neglect to eat breakfast on their way out the door only for his mother to call them back and ensure they ate something.

Without her, the kitchen felt empty. It was as if his mother was the pilot light that kept the house operating, and now that she had gone out, it had split in two. Varian had the daylight basement--his bedroom was down there, and the common area had become a laboratory, full of contraptions and experiments and odds and ends. And his father--when he was not at work--would sit in the livingroom and read, or watch the news, or be out in the garage fixing something that (in Varian’s opinion) did not need to be fixed. 

They didn’t know how to relate to each other anymore, and so they mostly avoided one another. Except for those UN summits, it was as if both of them lived alone.

So it was not unusual for Varian to get home from school to find a very quiet, very dark house. He dropped his backpack on one of the chairs by Mail Mountain and immediately opened the fridge, an after-school ritual as old as time. His father had been shopping recently: an overabundance of fresh produce stared back at him, blocking his view of the less healthy snacks that Varian had put there. 

When he closed the fridge door after fishing out a soda, he came face-to-face with the dry erase board. If the kitchen was where UN summits occured, then the dry erase board was the BBC, a scroll of notes and news back and forth between father and son. In blue marker, written in his father’s familiar blocky hand, was a new message:

_ Home @ 5. Summit tonight _

Varian glanced at the digital clock on the stovetop.  _ 4:47pm. _ His shoulders dropped. He had only just gotten home. If he had known that his evening was going to be interrupted like this, he wouldn’t have stayed in the fabrication studio at school for so long.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his father. Quite the opposite--Varian’s father was his greatest hero, a man who he looked to whenever things got too “adult” for him to handle on his own. It didn’t matter if it was applying for a bank account, or anxiety attacks about college, or those rare moments of absolute fragility where he was suddenly five years old and crying for his mom (though he tried not to let his dad know how often those happened). His father was always the person Varian most wanted in times of need.

But it was a Tuesday, and Varian had a true crime podcast to listen to, and a project that would require a lot of soldering, and then at some point he’d have to get his homework done before catching a few hours of sleep, taking a cold shower, and going back to school for Wednesday. A UN Summit in the middle of that schedule was going to drastically reduce one of those activities.

And he probably couldn’t operate on any less sleep than he was already getting.

Taking a deep breath, Varian cracked his can of soda and turned on the track lights on the kitchen ceiling so that the room didn’t feel so uninviting when his father got home. It was unusual for his dad to get off shift so early. Maybe he was sick? Traded shifts with someone else?

Varian sat down heavily in an empty chair at the table and began to rummage through his backpack. In the time it took for him to fish out his laptop and for the computer to connect to the house wifi, he could hear the engine on his father’s police cruiser pull into the driveway. He listened as the car door opened and closed, as a key unlocked the front door, as his father’s heavy footfalls stepped into the foyer. He couldn’t explain it, but something felt off. He could hear his father take a deep breath before heading for the kitchen, and for whatever reason, Varian tensed.

His father had been an officer with the sheriff’s department for as long as Varian had been a sentient being. They lived in a relatively small town that saw more speeding tickets than it did petty crime. Several years ago, someone had stolen about five hundred in cash from a bank located inside of a grocery store, and people still talked about it like it was on par with Watergate. 

Recently, however, problems seemed to be migrating to Old Corona from the nearby capital, only about an hour up the interstate. It was keeping his father and the rest of their jurisdiction awfully busy. Varian couldn’t help but wonder what issue had slithered their way this time.

“Oh, good,” his father said by way of a greeting. “You’re home.”

Varian took a sudden, deep breath and sat upright, swivelling his head to find his father’s broad frame filling the doorway to the kitchen. 

“Hey, dad,” he greeted, elbows both resting on the table. He sat back in the chair in order to see his father easier.

Quirin was a big man. Whenever he dropped off Varian at school, terms like “brick shithouse” got tossed around by some of his less subtle classmates. He was still in his full turnouts, vest and holster and tactical belt on as if he were going to head right back to the station after whatever this meeting was about. And maybe he was.

“Are you alright?”

Varian blinked. “Uh. Yeah? I mean, these aren’t like,  _ excessive _ eye bags. These are just regular teen eye bags,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the shadows under his eyes. “From, you know. Being a teen.” 

(They were from deliberate sleep deprivation, but Varian didn’t see the use in getting into it here.)

His father sighed again, and this time the relief seemed to come from somewhere deeper. “Did you see my texts?”

On instinct, Varian’s hand went to his back pocket. He pulled out his phone to find several text notifications from his dad, all vague and requesting a 5pm meeting. 

“Oh. Sorry, I was walking home. Didn’t notice them.”

Quirin offered Varian a small grin and stepped forward, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Listening to that crime podcast of your’s, huh?”

Varian shrugged lamely. The tension coming off of his father was too distracting to think of anything witty to say, so he simply sat there and waited for the man to speak. His father squared his shoulders, and before Varian’s eyes, transitioned into Cop Mode.

“Listen, Varian,” Quirin began, “I have to talk to you about something.”

“Am I in trouble,” Varian interrupted. “Because it wasn’t me, I don’t even use my bottle rockets anymore, so whoever is saying that it’s my fault is--”

Quirin held up both hands, giving Varian a quizzical look. “No, no. Why would I-... No, nevermind. I don’t want to know.”

Varian watched as his father pulled out a chair at the table across from him and sat down. That odd sense that something was off crept back along Varians shoulders, and he stayed quiet, watching his father warily. 

“I came by around 3:30, but you weren’t home yet,” Quirin explained. “Hence the note. I need to talk to you about something that… won’t be easy to accept.”

The suspense was beginning to grate at Varian’s nerves. He sat very still, his hands gripping at the chair cushion below him. “Okay,” he prompted slowly.

“You know that your Uncle Hector and Aunt Adira and I grew up together into a rough city,” Quirin began carefully. “There was a lot of gang activity in the area and we were part of it just like everyone else. When we made a pact to get out of there and do something good with our lives, I… thought we’d left it behind us.”

Varian said nothing. It was rare for his father to share anything about his past, let alone speak so candidly about it. He of course knew the story--his father had shared pieces of it a number of times in an unnecessary but well-meaning attempt at convincing his son not to go down a similar route. They were always cautionary tales, and were frustratingly devoid of specifics, but Varian knew the gist of it. 

Why his father was bringing it up now, though, he had no idea.

“It-” Quirin continued, starting and stopping and starting again, clearly struggling with what he had to say. There was a moment of fragility on his face, emotions winning out, before Cop Mode turned back on. “It looks like Hector has been working with the Brotherhood all these years, Varian.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft buzz of the refrigerator. The two of them stared at one another, waiting for the other to speak. Slowly, Varian began to process what his father had just said. 

“... Wait. Uncle Hector is... What does that mean? He’s in a gang?”

“We have reason to believe he’s been acting as an informant for the Brotherhood, yes,” Quirin said carefully. “He’s been acting reckless, lately, and it all came out in a recent internal investigation.”

The refrigerator seemed to buzz louder with each passing moment. Varian stared at his father, waiting for some indication that this wasn’t true, but Quirin stared back intently, the lines on his face deepened by stress. 

“I have reason to believe that Hector may act out. I know it’s paranoia, but to be safe, I’d like for you to come back to the station with me until my shift is over tonight. Alright?”

That, more than anything else, sent a bolt of confusing panic down Varian’s spine. “Uh,” he began, scrambling to process the implication. “Okay? Why, do you… I mean, Uncle Hector wouldn’t…”

“I know,” his father replied, and just like that, he stepped out of Cop Mode. Reaching one of his big hands across the table, he rested it on Varian’s shoulder and offered his son a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I would just feel better if you were doing homework at my desk. I’m sure I’m just being an overprotective dad. Okay?”

Before his eyes, Varian watched his evening plans blink out like dying stars. If the situation were less serious, perhaps he’d protest--as it were, it was clear his father had already made up his mind, and Varian’s mind was spinning with new information. He couldn’t imagine transitioning into a podcast and soldering project any time soon after what he’d just been told.

“Okay,” he answered, his voice small. He felt a little numb, and a lot confused, and in such a state of mental free-fall, all it took for his father to get him up and moving was to hand Varian his backpack. Mechanically, he stood and shoved his feet back into his shoes, pulled his hoodie back on, and followed his father out to the cruiser in their driveway.

No one spoke until they were pulling onto their quiet neighborhood street. As their house pulled away in the rearview, Varian glanced over at his dad, noticing the steely grip the man had on the wheel.

“Is Uncle Hector gunna go to jail,” he asked, surprised by how young his own voice sounded. 

There was a significant pause, which was more of an answer than anything else. Varian turned his eyes back to the road, mind racing. 

When his father finally did answer, it was in a defeated tone that Varian hadn’t heard in a long time. “I don’t know, son.”

Minutes began to pass by as the two settled into an uncertain silence. Varian looked out the window at the passing houses and cars, at the people headed home from a long day of work. In the quiet of the cruiser, with only the occasional interruption coming over his father’s scanner, he had time to think.

Adira and Hector were not blood relatives. Along with his father, they had been childhood friends, growing up around the influence of an organized crime unit known as the Brotherhood. This had always fascinated Varian, despite what little he knew about it. (In fact, his fascination probably stemmed from the fact that he knew so little. Without all the pieces, it was easy to fill in the rest of the story with exaggerated fantasy.)

For his father, it was hard to reconcile the quiet, stoic man that Varian knew with someone who had once been part of a crime syndicate. With Adira and Hector, Varian could see their origins in how they behaved. 

Adira spoke softly and carried a large metaphoric stick. She was a skilled fighter, a clever problem solver, and a fixed emotional point for both of them when Varian lost his mother. Her steady, unflinching bravery always made Varian feel safe as a child, and he had more than once struggled to decide if he should bring his father in for career day, or Adira. 

Hector was the opposite. He was fun in that he made trouble and broke rules, and encouraged Varian to get into trouble on more than one occasion. He drank too much at barbecues, and pushed buttons, and had a quick temper. 

But he had been the fun uncle, always bringing Varian toys and gadgets his own parents wouldn’t buy him. He bought Varian his first bottle rocket, and let Varian hold his (unloaded) firearm when his father wasn’t looking. He’d even let Varian try his first beer at a Fourth of July party a few years back. (Also when his father wasn’t looking.)

Hector was a wildcard, but he was still family. The thought that he’d never actually left the Brotherhood behind was…

Well, Varian didn’t know how to feel about it, and he realized that he might not know for a while. Hopefully, this was all some misunderstanding. 

Right?

Beside him, his father shifted noticeably in his seat. Varian looked away from the passing houses and followed his father’s line of sight out the windshield of the car. Several blocks ahead, what appeared to be a red car was rolled nose-first into the ditch alongside the road.

“Yikes,” Varian said quietly, his mind temporarily pulled from his uncle. He sat upright to try and see more clearly.

Quirin reached for the radio mounted to his shoulder. “11-83, I have a car that appears to be down in the ditch at about Holsten and 83rd. Code 8, requesting backup.”

The cruiser sped up to cover the distance between them and the wreck. When it pulled to a stop about a half-block away, Quirin undid his seatbelt and turned to look Varian square in the eye. “Stay in the vehicle,” he instructed, wearing his best Cop Face. Varian, who had been reaching for his own seatbelt, sighed and slumped back in the seat.

His father got out, and the car became silent. As Varian watched, Quirin began walking toward the wreck, one hand on his holster and the other up by his radio. Varian couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he had the scanner on, and through it he could hear his father’s digitized voice call in an “11-96, we have someone trying to climb out of the vehicle,” and then through the window of the car, his muffled voice called out “Are you okay?”

Someone did, indeed, climb out of the car, followed by a second someone. They got out as if on cue, and before Quirin could ask them again if they were hurt, they both took off running in the opposite direction. 

Varian sat up again, eyes widening. His father pursued, his voice over the radio calling out a series of codes and suspect descriptions that Varian couldn’t identify. In the span of only a few seconds, both of the men from the vehicle and Varian’s father had taken off around a house and out of sight.

Leaving Varian sitting there alone, staring through the windshield in bewilderment, listening to the scanner.

He had never been particularly interested in police work. He’d never felt that he had to be--Quirin had never encouraged him toward the profession, and aside from some friendly barbecues and having every officer in their small town know him by his first name, Varian mostly stayed to his own interests.

It didn’t help that his interests often involved things blowing up, or catching fire. For that reason, most of his father’s coworkers looked at Varian as if he were only a few steps shy of becoming a fully-fledged delinquent. 

(Not on purpose, mind you. He didn’t  _ try _ to make things explode. They just… did, sometimes.)

That said, watching his father take off in a foot pursuit was about as fascinating as their roadtrips got, and Varian itched to get out of the car to investigate the abandoned vehicle. To see for himself what was going on. Not that his father would be happy with him for Nancy Drewing around a potential crime scene. Just that his curiosity was becoming overpowering. 

The passenger side door suddenly pulled open. Varian startled badly, turning and blinking owlishly at the sudden opening beside him. Standing there in the evening light, grin on his face and gun pointed right at Varian, was his uncle Hector.

“Hey, kiddo.”


	2. Chapter 2

Quirin pursued for the length of about three houses before he received confirmation that other officers were in pursuit. He doubled back at half-speed to examine the vehicle until another officer could arrive and take over for him. 

Of all the things that could interrupt his day, this was the most frustrating. Yes, he was on duty. Yes, he would do his job to the best of his ability. But it was only that morning that he had learned about Hector’s betrayal. He hadn’t even begun to really process it--his focus had only been on getting Varian to the precinct.

Regardless, at least Varian was with him. He could count that as a silver lining, if he was really trying to remain positive about the abrupt left turn his life had just taken. For most of the day, he had been anxious to make sure nothing had happened, had called the school twice to confirm his son’s presence there, had decided to head right home after school hours to get him. When he remembered that Varian stayed late on Tuesdays, he’d left a note on the dry erase board on their fridge before going out to assist with a call.

This town didn’t have much concern for his personal anxieties, though, if this interruption was any indication. Quirin crossed back over the lawn next to the abandoned car, his breath steadily returning to him after the sudden sprint. Voices chattered over his radio. It sounded like another officer was in pursuit of the two individuals he had just been chasing. 

Well, maybe the distraction would be good for Varian, at any rate. It had been agonizing to watch his son’s face when he told him about Hector. Varian had always loved it when his uncle came around. 

Up on the road, something caught Quirin’s eye. His SUV cruiser was idling right where he left it, but the passenger side door was open. 

“Oh, Varian,” he groaned, moving into a jog again to get a better view. If he had gotten out to poke around the abandoned vehicle, he was going to get a talking to. There was no knowing what could be in that car that could stick or poke him, or--

Quirin came up short. Varian wasn’t near the abandoned car. He wasn’t near the cruiser. In fact, he wasn’t in sight at all. 

“Varian,” Quirin called, the slow onset of panic amping up. “Varian!”

There was no answer aside from the evening crickets starting up. Quirin turned in a full circle, trying to catch sight of the teenager, but he was the only person outside. He came up along the passenger side of the vehicle and stopped short.

Sitting on the empty passenger seat was Varian’s phone. It was in the middle of a 9-1-1 call, and over the ringing in his ears, Quirin could hear the tiny voice of the operator trying to get a response on the other end of the line. 

Next to it, reflecting the low evening light, was Hector’s badge.

-

“Did you know, your parents asked Adira to be your godmother? But they didn’t ask me to be your godfather, did they?”

Hector was talking for the sake of it. There was a kind of crazed air about him as he drove, steadily and at legal speed so as not to draw any attention. In the passenger seat, Varian risked a sideways glance at him before returning his eyes to the road. His heart was pounding in his chest, so hard that he could feel it rocking him just slightly against the back of the seat. 

“They asked my mom’s brother,” he said quietly, as if it would explain away whatever ancient frustration Hector was feeling. 

The man laughed. “Yeah, sure.” 

They lapsed back into quiet. Varian glanced for the third time at the keys in the ignition, and then at the handle on the door beside him. He had already tried it, when Hector had first closed it on him. The child lock had been turned on--it wouldn’t open from the inside. 

“Well maybe it’s for the best, huh?” Hector asked, too loud for the small space between them. He laughed again, gesturing around the car with one hand as if to explain what he meant. Maybe it’s for the best, since Hector was an informant for a crime syndicate. Maybe it was for the best, since Hector was abducting him. 

“Where are we going,” Varian asked, his voice small and mousy, betraying him. He didn’t ask  _ why-- _ he didn’t know how to.

“We are going,” Hector began, reaching into his pocket and shoving something at Varian, who flinched away from it. When he was brave enough to look, he recognized a phone being offered to him. “To call your dad, and let him know exactly where he can pick you up. Tell him exactly what I tell you to say, you understand?”

Varian hesitated, but not long enough to earn his uncle’s ire. The last thing Varian wanted was for this crazed energy to be directed at him. With a shaking hand, he took the phone and stared down at it.

For a beat. Two beats. Hector looked over at him. “You know your old man’s number, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Varian answered softly, selecting the green phone icon and taking a deep breath. “Uncle Hector, you don’t have to do this. I can just walk home, okay? I won’t tell anyone that I was with you.”

For a terrible, hopeful moment, Hector was silent, staring at the road. His facial expression was frighteningly intense, the muscles of his jaw working in tandem with those in his neck. 

“Call your father,” he said, his voice now devoid of any forced levity. There was no arguing with it. Varian tensed, and did as he was told.

After only one ring, the call was answered.

_ “Hector,”  _ his father said, his voice radiating unfamiliar anger. Varian glanced at his uncle, who gave him a sharp sideways glance. A warning look.

“H-hey dad,” Varian said, when Hector remained silent. “I’m okay.”

_ “Varian,” _ Quirin rushed. He sounded startled, relieved, desperate.  _ “Everything’s going to be alright. Just do what Hector says. He won’t hurt you.” _

“Okay,” Varian replied lamely, keeping an eye on Hector’s face. That intense, frustrated look remained firmly set in place. 

“Repeat after me, kid,” Hector said quietly. “Word for word: ‘If you want me back, bring the money in its entirety to the old lumber mill out on Highway 45, and give it to the guy there’.”

Haltingly, Varian repeated the message to his father. Hector continued, echoed by Varian as he spoke: 

“‘Once Hector’s guy has the money, he’ll drop me off somewhere with a phone and I’ll call you to tell you where I am.’”

On the other end of the line, his father’s voice sounded professionally measured, but Varian could hear it fraying with emotion.  _ “Okay. Tell him we’ll do what he says. It’s going to be okay, son. Just stay calm, and do what he tells you to do. I’m coming.” _

Hector reached out his hand for the phone. A rush of panic struck Varian right in the chest. The thought of losing his only tether to safety was almost too much. Hector snapped his fingers in demand for the phone, whatever limited patience he had rapidly deteriorating. Varian had seconds _ \--less than seconds-- _

“We’re on 92nd in a black sedan and he has a gun--” Varian rushed, his words nearly slurred together with speed. He would have continued, would have shared any detail that could have helped, but Hector’s fist collided with his cheekbone, and snagged the phone out of Varian’s stunned hand. 

Hector rolled down his window, chucked the phone, and floored it. “Not smart, kid,” he snarled, anger born from panic. “Fuck.  _ Fuck _ , Varian!”

“Please let me out of the car,” Varian answered, struggling to keep his voice even, hand pressed against his face where he’d been struck. His vision spun.

“Shut up,” Hector snapped, taking an abrupt left onto a new road. “I’m trying to be nice, kid, this doesn’t have to be violent, don’t  _ make it violent!” _

“Please let me out of the car, Hector,” he repeated, implored,  _ begged, _ his heart in his throat.

“You say one more goddamn thing and I’m gunna shut you up, you understand? Just sit there and  _ shut up.” _

Varian closed his mouth, tears blurring his vision. It was getting hard to breathe, panic rising in him like pressure inside a volcano. He gasped softly, struggling to catch his breath. Beside him, Hector was not helping.

“I need that money or they’ll kill me. Is that what you want? You want me to die, Varian?!”

“No,” Varian hiccuped back, voice shaking.

“Adira helped in the bust that lost me the money. You want them to go after her, too? You want Adira to die?!”

“No,” Varian repeated, more urgently, a tear escaping. “I don’t know what’s going on! I just wanna get out!”

Hector pulled again onto another road, driving at great speed toward the forest on the outskirts of town. “Well you’re not! You’re gunna sit there and shut up and do what I tell you, you understand?”

Varian said nothing, mind racing and head spinning and cheek throbbing. 

“Do you understand,” Hector yelled again, slamming an open palm down on the steering wheel and making Varian jolt. 

“Yes,” he rushed. “Yes, okay, I understand!”

Hector pressed the car even faster. They rode in tense, frightening silence, Hector fuming and Varian shaking. The further they went, the more trees began to appear around them, forest gradually replacing farmland. There were lots of hiking trails up here, and old access roads from when the town made its money in lumber decades prior. It was a labyrinth, it’s entrance marked by an old yellow farmhouse. 

As they sped passed the property and into the wooded roads, the sounds of distant sirens finally reached them.

Hector didn’t speak, and Varian didn’t push him. All of this was almost impossible to reconcile. His uncle had always been a handful, but he’d never been violent. At least, not around Varian. Not in any way that had felt overtly dangerous. Varian was afraid, but the man sitting next to him didn’t seem like his uncle at all. It was as if a stranger in a very convincing Uncle Hector costume was behind it all. Some Scooby-Doo villain, and when his father caught up and pulled off the Hector mask, they’d discover someone entirely different.

He didn’t dare speak, though his mouth was full of unasked questions and pleas. The car whipped up the road, winding into the dark trees as night loomed around them. The forest was eerie in the growing darkness, but where light didn’t follow, those distant sirens did. Varian chanced a look over his shoulder, but the road was empty behind them.

_ Please, dad, _ he thought, a silent prayer to whoever was listening. _ Please find me. _

-

If Adira were in Hector’s shoes, she would go right to the woods. It was dark, confusing, difficult to access with vehicles, and isolated from any witnesses. Bailing out on foot would be easier, as would eluding any pursuing officers. Based on Varian’s report that they had been on 92nd street, and considering that the only direction on that road away from Quirin was westbound, Adira felt confident that she knew where Hector was going.

Ordering available K-9 units was easy. Given that the police captain’s son had just been abducted by a mole within their very precinct, and considering Old Corona didn’t see any major crime like this, it took almost no effort to secure all available units. She also put in a call for air support, and a helicopter was flying out of the City of Corona to assist them. It would take around thirty minutes for that to reach them; if Adira had anything to say about it, she’d have her nephew back safely and her life-long friend in cuffs by then.

Although these days, “friend” was a strong word for Hector. It seemed that the older they got, the more they disagreed on. Adira--fierce and wild in her youth--had become far too centered and measured for Hector’s taste. Likewise, the wiser Adira got, the less tolerance she had for Hector’s particular brand of bullshit.

She had tolerated a lot from him over the years. Had driven his drunk ass home, had hauled him away from fights, had let him rant and rave about whatever frustrating thing he was passionate about on any given week. Through it all, she had been confident that despite their differences, she would still put her life on the line for him. Between the three of them--Adira, Quirin, and Hector--existed a familial bond that she didn’t have with anyone else.

Until Varian, perhaps. She had thought Quirin insane for wanting a child, couldn’t understand the appeal of a slimy, noisy little carbon copy running around. Still couldn’t, if she was being honest.

But her nephew had grown on her like wildfire, a hot flash that quickly burned away any disinterest or distaste. Varian wasn’t a carbon copy of Quirin--he took after his mother almost completely. Her small build, her quick wit, her sharp mind. She had imparted on her son the drive to help, and do good, to build and fix and create. When Varian had been seven years old, he’d asked Adira to be his Show-and-Tell at school, and if she wasn’t already sold by his giant blue eyes, that sealed the deal. Just like that, Adira went from having two (and a half, counting Quirin’s wife) family members, to three. (And a half.)

And Hector was putting him in danger. So Adira was out for blood.

She was behind the wheel of her vehicle with Quirin in the passenger seat. They sped along without saying a word, communicating with simple gestures and nods like they had since they were kids. They were both good at reading people, but where they excelled was in reading each other. With a tilt of an eyebrow and a shift in posture, Adira could learn all she needed to know about what Quirin was thinking. 

Ahead of them, a yellow farmhouse came into view, signaling the start of the forestry roads. It was dark enough now that the red and blue lights from her cruiser reflected off of each surface they passed, and it lit the house up like a beacon in the growing night. In the rearview, other units were following not far behind.

Quirin was tension made flesh. Adira understood the desire to protect, the desire to punch, and the conflict that both created when they existed at the same time. But Quirin was on a level that she hadn’t seen since his wife had died. The anticipation that his son would be hurt. The fury and guilt that he was in this position in the first place. And the unspeakable, horrifying possibility that maybe,  _ just maybe, _ he could lose his son.

Adira adjusted her grip on the steering wheel and took a slow, deliberate breath. Quirin flexed his hands into fists and did the same, trying to mirror her. 

Roughly a hundred yards into the trees, the access road turned to gravel. A hundred more, and it turned to dirt. Forced to slow down, Adira avoided a set of tracks that had been pressed into the dirt back in the spring, when it was mud. In her headlights, she pursued as fast as she dared. There was no sign of the vehicle in question, and no mud for obvious tracks to be left in.

So where in the forest would Hector go? Likely, he would choose a direction at random, to remain unpredictable. 

“The roads don’t go on forever,” Quirin spoke, breaking the silence. His voice was low, and dangerous. 

“He’ll need to bail out sooner or later,” Adira agreed. “And then the K-9s will be able to track them.”

“He’ll go to high ground.”

“A defensible position,” she clarified.

Both of them glanced at one another. They arrived at the conclusion at the same time.

“The quarry,” Adira said, giving voice to it. When Quirin didn’t respond in the negative, she got on her radio. They would have to divide and conquer to try and close off any escape routes.

As she put out the call and began to explain the plan to the officers behind them, Quirin’s face grew stormier. Having a plan was giving him something to channel his anger at. 

He’d always had anger issues. Quirin’s strength was knowing exactly how to channel it, so much so that most people who knew him had no idea he had a temper. Tonight, that cool demeanor was nowhere to be found.

“We’ll get him,” Adira said. It was not meant to comfort--it was a promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought I wasn't going to finish this.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Varian understood that this had been a long time coming.

Although he didn’t know the full story, he knew of his father’s youth spent in a dying city, running errands for adults who had agendas a child can’t even begin to conceive of. Varian understood that in an environment like that, it was easy to become endeared to the very people that were putting you in harm’s way. He’d seen movies after all, and in an abstract sense, he knew that everything was relative. 

So if three kids from that dying city had left together, what was the statistical probability that one of them wouldn’t actually have left the life behind? If all three of them had been good at it, and all three of them had seen promising futures for themselves there, didn’t it make sense that one of them would keep in touch with the Brotherhood? After all, leaving meant stepping into uncertainty. There couldn’t have been any way for them to know where they’d land out there in the big, wide world. But in the Brotherhood, there was a clear path forward. 

Why Varian was trying to rationalize Hector’s choices, though, he had no idea. Maybe because it gave him the context he so desperately needed to be able to recognize the man sitting next to him. Because at that moment, Varian was trapped in a car with a stranger, speeding through a dark forest with police sirens distant and ever-present. And that stranger had a gun.

In the limited range of the car’s headlights, a forestry gate came into view, one of those triangular ones that the Parks Department would close off with a length of chain in the off-season. Reflectors flashed back at them, red and alarming in the night.

Hector sped up. Just as Varian realized his intentions and braced a hand against the dashboard, the car rammed through the gate, breaking the chain lock and throwing it open. The car jolted roughly, but continued on undeterred. 

And still, Varian said nothing. His fear had grown two hands and was strangling him, cutting off his voice, just barely allowing any breath in. He had no idea what to do. What could he  _ possibly _ do? All of the statistics flying through his head pointed like neon arrows to a single outcome, one that ended with a police dog finding his body in the woods. The only asterisk was that  _ just maybe, _ Hector would spare him due to some sense of familial obligation.

The car sped down the gravel road, and Varian began to recognize a few things. Markers along the road, little informational plaques for hikers and joggers about local tree species and wildlife. Varian caught sight of one of them, an illustration of a squirrel flying by the passenger side of the vehicle. 

He knew this road. He had been hiking along it since he was a little kid, first with his mom and then with his dad once she’d died. It was only about three miles, and ended at--

“The quarry,” Varian said quietly, turning his eyes to Hector. Lit only by the orange interface of the car’s dashboard, the man was nearly unrecognizable. He said nothing in response.

_ Just do what Hector says, _ his father had told him over the phone. Varian had no illusions of heroism, and no intention of putting himself in any more danger than he was already in. But what was Hector intending to do at the quarry?

_ Dump a body, _ Varian’s traitorous mind whispered. He drew a shaky breath and tried to banish the thought.

Abruptly, Hector hit the breaks. Varian’s palms returned to the dashboard to brace himself, his seat belt locking up. The car came to a diagonal stop across the dirt road, blocking other cars from getting by. 

Numb with fear, Varian turned to look at Hector, and found the gun trained on him again. Hector leaned toward him, forcing Varian to meet his eye. “You’ll do what I tell you to do. Got it?”

“Got it,” Varian whispered, heart pounding in his throat. Hector left the engine running and climbed out of the vehicle, leaving his door wide open. He came around to the passenger side and yanked the door open.

“Out.”

Varian was quick to undo his seat belt and obey. Only once he was standing did he realize how weak his legs felt, shaking and wobbling beneath him. Hector didn’t give him an opportunity to collapse; he grabbed Varian roughly by the upper arm and began marching him into the darkness ahead of the car. 

The quarry was small, comparatively speaking. It had been dug out of the side of a hill back in the 90s to provide dirt and slate for a housing development across town, and once the project was finished, it was left for nature to reclaim. Now the bottom of the pit had become a pond full of newts, surrounded on three sides by towering cliff walls. Families hiked out and threw sticks into the pond for their dogs to fetch; teenagers snuck out and threw parties there on warm summer nights. Once, long ago, Adira had taught Varian how to skip rocks across the smooth glassy water.

In the dark, it was a void. The only light that led them along was the headlights of Hector’s car, which rapidly faded as they moved away toward the quarry. Varian struggled to keep up with the man’s brisk pace, his legs stumbling beneath him. 

He kept taking breaths to say something, to plead with his uncle.  _ Please, Hector, let me go. Please, don’t do this. Please stop. _ Each time he would clamp his mouth shut against the words, swallow them back down, too afraid of what Hector might do if the begging made him angrier.

They turned away from the dirt road, and began climbing a sloped path that led up around the rim of the quarry. Here, only the dim light of the moon kept Varian from stumbling over rocks and pitfalls. The higher they climbed, the more alarmed Varian was by the sudden drop to his right, a sheer cliff face down to the pond below growing ever taller.

“Here’s what you’re gunna do,” Hector said, finally shattering the silence between them. He continued dragging Varian along, his vice-like grip on his upper arm unwavering. Below, the pale reflection of the moon wobbling on the surface of the water. “You’re going to stay very quiet, and not say  _ anything _ while I talk. Not a single goddamn word, unless I tell you to speak. Or else--are you listening?--or else I’m going to throw you over the edge. You understand?”

Varian nodded vigorously, even if Hector couldn’t see it. “Yes,” he replied meekly. 

“Good. There’s that big brain of yours, finally starting to work.”

Hector marched him right to the top of the rim, and turned them both to face the cliff. From this height, they could see the valley unfold through the treetops across the way, the humble lights of Old Corona a world away. 

In front of them, the drop was now at least fifty feet. Varian felt tears of panic well up and sit on his bottom lashes, but hardly noticed when they fell. 

“Please,” he whispered, a plea finally escaping from somewhere deep inside. Hector’s grip on his arm tightened, yanking him an inch to the side in a threatening moment of instability.

“What did I just say?!” the man barked, lifting the gun. Distracted by the heights, Varian had momentarily forgotten it was there.

“Sorry,” he squeaked, and then bit down on his tongue to keep from saying anything else. He could taste blood, but didn’t feel any pain.

From their commanding point of view, something new caught Varian’s eye. Blue and red lights reaching up the lengths of trees, closer and closer. They moved past where the road bent below, and suddenly that distant sound of sirens doubled in volume, no longer muffled by the hill. The lights stopped moving right around where Hector had blocked the road.

The man behind him shifted, packed with anxious potential energy. Varian felt it too: somewhere down there, his dad was on his way.

When the first officers moved into the headlights of Hector’s car, guns drawn and moving in a low crouch to sweep the area, Varian closed his eyes tightly. The mere sight of them drew all of his panic crashing to the front of his mind, a tidal wave that he struggled to weather without making any noise.

He felt the gun press lightly into his mid-back. Like an overloaded circuit, suddenly, Varian’s mind went blank.

He opened his eyes, and looked down at the scene unfolding below. Officers were fanning out, searching for any indication of where their target had gone. Someone--Adira, Varian recognized faintly--was calling instructions and orders in precise, authoritarian language. They worked like a well-oiled machine, their flashlights cutting through the darkness to illuminate the path down to the pond, the cliff walls, the woods in the opposite direction. 

When his father stepped into view below, Hector somehow managed to tense even further. 

“Where’s the money, Quirin,” he called, sharp and startling in the otherwise quiet night. Powerful police-issue flashlights swerved up to them, blinding points of light that made Varian flinch and lift a hand to shield his face. 

What a sight they must have made. Varian, small and shaking at the edge of a cliff, Hector’s hand clamped around his upper arm with a gun at his back. It was better than finding a body, Varian recognized distantly, but he was glad he couldn’t see his father’s face regardless.

Below, Quirin’s deep voice called back in a tone so enraged and commanding that it would’ve terrified Varian in any other situation. “Let him  _ go, _ Hector!”

Through the glare of the flashlights, Varian could vaguely make out Adira pulling Quirin back. She said something, too far away to make out, before she stepped forward.

“Hector,” she called, “The money you’ve requested is on its way to your contact at the lumber mill. Varian has nothing to do with this. Let him come back down the hill to safety.”

Her voice was measured, professional. So much so, in fact, that Varian immediately knew how much rage she was channeling. The angrier Adira was, the more formal and composed she sounded. 

“Just as soon as I get the call,” Hector shouted back. “I get proof that the money is back, I let him go.”

There was a pause down below. The flashlights did not waver or turn away, continuing to blind Varian and keep him from seeing what was going on. 

Adira’s voice shot out through the night again, this time amplified by a megaphone. “I want to speak to Varian,” she said, her voice strange and electronic through the device.

Hector tugged him backward a fraction of an inch. Varian sucked in a sharp breath; any risk to his balance so close to the edge of the cliff was horrifying. His uncle leaned in, pressing the gun into his back just a little harder. Beside his ear, the man spoke quietly. “Tell them to get me the money,” he instructed.

Varian took a small, useless gasp of an inhale and started to speak, only to stop abruptly when his voice failed him. Afraid that Hector would think he was being difficult, he was quick to try again. “You--you need to get him the money,” he called, his shaking voice echoing down the cliff walls that surrounded the quarry. 

Adira’s voice came back without missing a beat. “We’re working on it, kiddo. Are you hurt?”

Hector stayed close, but didn’t say anything. His silence was permission enough to reply. 

“No,” Varian called down, unconvincing to his own ears. He wanted to say more, but the gun against his back kept him quiet. 

“Hector,” Adira said, switching gears. “It doesn’t have to go down like this. The money is en route as we speak. Let him go, and we won’t storm the hill until you get the call from your guy. A fair fighting chance, okay? Your nephew doesn’t have to be in the middle of it.”

“Don’t treat me like some meth head in a McDonald’s parking lot,” Hector snapped, yanking again on Varian’s arm. “I fooled you for  _ years! _ I succeeded where you two  _ cowards _ couldn’t, and I won’t let you tear down everything I’ve done!”

“You’re right,” Adira agreed. “We didn’t know this entire time. Not a clue.”

She didn’t follow it up with an argument. This confused Varian, so used to their dynamic of back-and-forth bickering, until he realized that she was trying to keep Hector calm. Because if he lost it, it was Varian who would pay. 

“I gotta return that money,” Hector continued, loud and desperate like if he just said it with enough force, they would all suddenly understand. “They’ll kill me if I don’t!”

“No one is going to die tonight,” Adira replied. “No one has to get hurt. Hector, I have hauled your ass out of fire after fire, and I will do it again tonight. But if you don’t let Varian go, I swear to god, I will end you myself. Do you understand me?”

“I’m not some fuck up,” Hector cut back, his voice sharp and aggressive. “I don’t need your help, and I don’t need your pity! You get me that money, and this is over. Simple as that!”

Below, there was an exchange of words, short and too quiet to hear, before the megaphone beeped loudly and another voice spoke up.

“Do you remember what he wanted for his seventh birthday,” Quirin asked, his entire tone abruptly shifting the tension. Where minutes ago it had been potent with rage, now it was steady, even, some echo of heartbreak ringing through each word. 

The sound of his father’s voice drew a deep, harsh breath into Varian’s lungs. Fresh tears surged up and over his lashes, unbidden, unnoticed. For a split second, his inner five-year-old nearly took over, desperate for the safety of his father’s arms.

Behind Varian, Hector went still. He didn’t say anything. 

Quirin continued. It was impossible to see how Adira was reacting to this break from protocol. “He just wanted his Uncle Hector to build Legos with him. That’s what he asked for. Do you remember?”

The pressure of the gun against Varian’s back lessened. Hector was breathing hard behind him, wading through a mire of emotions so complicated Varian couldn’t begin to untangle it. 

“Please let my son go,” Quirin pleaded. It was a sobering, heavy request. No threats, no bargains, no empty promises. 

The gun vanished behind Varian’s back. Hector’s grip on his arm, however, did not waver. 

“This is your fault,” Hector called down after a weighted, uncertain pause. “I gave you the chance to do this the easy way!”

The unhinged confidence felt lessened, suddenly. He was hesitating; Varian could feel the uncertainty rise up and out of Hector like radiation. With difficulty, Varian peeled his eyes away from the swarm of lights and officers far below, and looked over his shoulder.

Hector was glaring down in  Quirin’s direction. He was unrecognizable, awash in emergency lights, his once-familiar features sharp and crazed. 

“Hector,” Varian said, barely a whisper, barely audible. The man’s hawk-like eyes snapped toward him, startled, as if for a moment he somehow forgot that Varian was a sentient person and not an inanimate bargaining chip. Varian swallowed the lump in his throat. “Please.”

Varian felt another tear break free and trail down his bruised cheek. Hector stared down at him like he was a monster from a horror movie, all wild panic and a barely-contained urge to back up. 

The look came, and went. Hector’s face hardened back into anger, the need for control reasserting itself. His grip on Varian’s arm, already painful, grew tighter. The nose of the gun pressed back into Varian’s kidney, hard.

“You have ten minutes,” he called down, anger raked across his voice. Unspoken was what he would do if that time came and went without a phone call.

Before Varian’s anxiety could create horrific possibilities for him to dwell on, a new voice sounded out far to their left, causing Hector to jump and pivot in that direction, pulling Varian harshly in front of him as a human shield. 

“This is ending.  _ Now.” _ Adira stood her ground about twenty feet away, her gun leveled directly at Hector’s chest. “Drop your weapon.”

The gun pressed into the side of Varian’s neck. Hector hunkered down close to him, minimizing Adira’s target size. Unable to do anything, Varian stared across at his aunt with wide eyes, his breath coming in small, shallow gasps. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Hector snapped, taking a step back and dragging Varian with him. “The money gets returned, I’ll let him go. I’ll give you all the names you need to take them down, Adira. But  _ not _ until that money is back.”

“I know everything, Hector,” Adira replied, her eyes never moving from her target. “I know about Project Moonstone. I know about the drugs, I know about the offshore account. If they don’t kill you for the money, they’ll kill you for snitching. We can protect you.”

“Protect me,” Hector repeated incredulously. He barked out a single loud laugh, making Varian flinch badly. “That’s optimistic. It’s  _ you  _ who should be afraid, Adira. Edmund gave us all a start, and the two of you spit in his face. If he comes after me, he’ll come after us all.”

“Let him come,” Adira replied, her voice growing darker. “Edmund is a senile old man who’s losing control of his inner circle. Unlike you, I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” Hector snarled.

Behind him, a phone began to buzz. Hector sucked in a quick breath, his grip finally releasing Varian’s arm. The gun did not move from the side of his neck. 

“What,” Hector said by way of greeting, holding the phone to his ear with his now-freed hand. Varian reached unconsciously up to his arm and rubbed at the sore spot where he’d been held. He looked at Adira pleadingly, struggling to maintain what little composure he still had. 

“No, it should all be there,” Hector was saying, “Quirin wouldn’t pull any tricks. I-- Listen to me, that’s all there was! I--  _ No, _ I didn’t-- I said I’d make amends, I’ll make amends! Just--”

Hector went abruptly quiet. Varian risked a glance to the side and watched Hector lower the phone from his ear, looking dumbfounded and panicked. A horrible, uncertain pause passed between the three of them on the top of the hill.

Then, a flood light illuminated everything around them.

Varian hadn’t heard the helicopter approaching over the surge of adrenaline in his system. He’d been so hyperfocused on the gun against his neck, on Hector’s ragged breathing, that the thrum of the chopper’s blades didn’t permeate his awareness. He recoiled at the bright light, as did Hector, who scrambled back with Varian in his grip to try and move out of the light. After only a few steps, it was obvious that it would follow them easily. Wind whipped around them, blowing grit and dust into Varian’s eyes. 

“Let him go, Hector,” Adira called over the noise, all authority and power. 

Behind Varian, Hector was unravelling quickly. Whatever had happened on the phone was not what he’d wanted, not what he’d hoped for. The plan he’d had, already paper-thin, was ruined. All that Hector had left between him and fate’s design was a sixteen-year-old and a gun.

‘It’s your fault,” Hector cried back. “You and Quirin! If you had just--”

He stepped toward the edge of the cliff, dragging Varian with him. Adira took a step forward, gun levelled. “Don’t move!”

“Hector, stop,” Varian gasped, the drop coming up to his toes as Hector surged him toward the ledge, trying to drive Adira back with the threat of dropping him. The teen grabbed at Hector’s arm, shoved himself back, his feet scraping over the ground to try and get traction, to try and get away from the ledge. Hector held him fast, an immovable wall behind him.

“Get back,” Hector was yelling, angling to shove Varian over the side. “Get back!”

Adira stopped her advance, but held her ground for a moment, clearly struggling not to rush forward. “Varian,” she called, his name hanging in the air like a question, a promise, whatever it had to be in that moment for either of them. 

“It’s all your fault,” Hector howled. “All of it!”

Below, in the flood of emergency lights, Varian could hear his father’s voice again through that megaphone. “Hector, don’t,” Quirin cried, his pitch rising with fear, and then--

And then Hector shoved him--

The ground dropped away under Varian’s feet--

A gunshot rang out, huge and booming as it echoed off of the cliff walls around him--

Varian dropped, sound erupting from somewhere deep in his chest, twisting in the air, arms pinwheeling out uselessly, air rushing by him, the choppy surface of the pond rising up--

Red and black shot across Varian’s vision when he hit the surface. His ankle hit first, his body at an angle, and then the rest of him, a crush of pins and needles and agony erupting into his body from his left side. The air flattened from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, static and disorientation and freezing cold and  _ pain, _ like he hadn't known before, and then--

Something was grabbing him around the elbow, hauling him up--up? Left? Down?--and then sound returned to him, numb beneath the water one moment and too loud the next, sirens and shouting and the crunch of gravel and his father’s voice right above him, saying his name again and again, son, son speak to me, say something, Varian--

_ Varian, say something-- _

-

Hospitals were strange, liminal spaces that Varian could only think about in short bursts. 

When his mom was sick, toward the end, he’d gotten lost in the hospital, wandering aimlessly from one ward to the next. All the hallways looked identical, all the offices smelled the same, and always there were people speed-walking by to get to who knows where to do who knows what. When an orderly had finally found him, he had somehow made it all the way to Radiology without knowing how. 

Which made it all the stranger to be the one lying in a hospital bed.

He stared sullenly at his left leg, wrapped in a fresh plaster cast from his toes all the way up his mid-thigh. His left arm itched, and there was nothing he could do about it, wrapped as it was in a sling and bound against his chest for stability. It was a miracle, one nurse had said, that his collarbone hadn’t ‘snapped like a wishbone on Thanksgiving’, but the stress fractures had done their best to get him there.

He dreaded the reality of going home. Already it was humiliating and difficult to go to the bathroom alone--months of showers with his leg wrapped in a garbage bag loomed before him. Shit, weeks of a  _ wheelchair _ were being discussed. How the hell was he supposed to wrap up high school looking like a cartoon character that had been flattened by a falling piano?

Beside him, his father cleared his throat, snapping Varian out of his woe. The pain medication he was on made it hard to focus.

“Yeah,” he said, having no idea what he was replying to. He looked toward his dad, careful to keep his gaze high enough that he didn’t have to look at the IV in the back of his hand. 

“I need to finish taking your statement, Varian,” Quirin said quietly, patiently.  _ That’s _ what they had been doing. Varian blinked slowly and nodded, wishing he could scratch his arm. 

“When you got out of the car, what happened,” his father asked. He was holding a notepad in his hand, but it was only to scribble down his own thoughts--between them, a recording device listened silently to what Varian had to say. 

“He, um. He led me up the side of the quarry, to the top of the hill, and told me to not say anything unless he told me to. You guys showed up just after that.”

“Did he say anything else to you?”

Varian shook his head, but it only served to make his vision swim, so he closed his eyes with a frown and waited for it to pass. “No,” he answered, “he just wanted me to stay quiet.”

Quirin scratched a few notes onto the notepad before he continued. “What happened next?”

Varian dropped his eyes to his broken wrist, fingers sticking out of the cast, which stuck out of the sling. He flexed his fingers carefully, finding it strange how numb and warm the pain meds made them feel. “Um. You guys negotiated with him. Or, Adira did. And then you took over, and then the next thing I knew Adira was at the top of the hill too, which is when Hector got the phone call.”

“Did anything happen between Adira getting to the top of the hill, and the phone call?”

“They argued,” Varian said quietly, emotion briefly shining through the drugs and tugging his stomach down toward the floor. “Adira was… She tried to tell him that she could protect him? But it just made him angry. He said that… That the Brotherhood would come after you guys.”

At this, he risked a glance at his father, but the Cop Mode was on so thoroughly in order to get through interviewing his own son that he didn’t even flinch at the mention of this. Realistically, Varian knew, Adira had already turned in her report. Varian’s statement at this point would only confirm or deny her explanation of what happened. Which meant Quirin knew exactly what Hector had said and done.

“The phone call,” Varian muttered. “The guy on the other line, he was still mad at him even though they got the money back. I don’t know what he said, but it, uh… Hector sort of… lost it, after that.”

At this, Quirin’s expression softened with a kind of parental pain Varian couldn’t identify. “I know it’s hard, son,” he said quietly. “But can you explain what you mean by that?”

Varian stayed silent for a stretch, suddenly hyper aware of the other officer standing by the door. He knew her from barbecues and pancake events at the fire station. She was kind, and he had been glad it was her who was temporarily assigned as his dad’s new partner, at least while Adira was on administrative leave after discharging her firearm. But it was still difficult to talk about Hector with anyone other than his family.

Somehow, he was embarrassed. Humiliated, actually, would be the more accurate word. Like a parent showing up to a school sporting event drunk, only infinitely worse. Even after everything, the impulse to soften his explanation rose up, as if somehow he could salvage the uncle he’d grown up knowing. 

His father’s huge, warm hand settled on top of his on the bed between them. Varian looked up, and was surprised to find that his eyes had watering. He quickly pulled his hand free and wiped the tears away, blinking owlishly. He hadn’t even felt them well up. He chose to blame the pain meds.

“He kept saying it was Adira’s fault. And yours. That’s when he started walking me toward the cliff, and, uh.” Varian’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Even with the drugs in his system, a well of residual panic still rose in his stomach at the fresh memories. He shook his head and dropped his gaze back down to his fingers. “He knew what he was doing,” he said. “I think he wanted Adira to shoot him.”

Silence hung in the room. His father regarded him with a somber, exhausted expression. “I think so too,” Quirin said, almost as quiet as Varian, his hand once again settling over his son’s forearm. When Varian looked up to meet his father’s gaze, Cop Mode was gone. Quirin looked old, and exhausted, and heartbroken. But at the same time, his expression, his tone, his body language, were all slack with relief as he looked upon his son. 

Varian chose to focus on that, rather than the impossible, horrible admission that hung between them.

Suddenly, he needed the mood to be entirely different. He had been mired in fear and heartbreak for so long now, more than anything he just needed a break. Before the mood in the room could stretch any further, Varian took a deep breath and forced a small, unconvincing smile on his face. 

“Well, you know what this means, right?” he asked, speaking with enough volume to make it clear he was ready to change the subject. His father graciously went along with it.

“Oh?” Quirin raised an eyebrow, looking up from his notepad and sighing out a small grin, equally relieved for the change of subject. 

“I think this means I can get that new Zelda game.”

His father blinked at him for a second, before a soft, genuine laugh rumbled out of his chest. “I think that sounds fair,” he answered, the smile remaining on his face. 

“And since I’m literally in a hospital bed right now, I think it also means I should make a registry for going away to college. People will  _ absolutely _ buy me things out of pity.”

“No one makes a registry for going to college. They’re for weddings,” Quirin argued.

“Ah, but how am I supposed to go to Target myself like this? Think about it, dad.”

Quirin heaved a sigh. “I think that means we’re done with the statement,” he announced, ending the recording and making a show of standing from his chair. “Is there anything more immediate I can get you, your majesty?”

“There’s gotta be a can of coke somewhere in this hospital,” Varian ventured. 

“That might be pushing it,” Quirin said, in such a way that Varian couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “A registry, fine. A can of sugar and caffeine while you’re full of morphine,” his father ended his point by making a ‘so-so’ gesture with his hand, squinting to imply it was unlikely. 

“Dad,” Varian groaned, drawing the word out as long as his breath would allow. He knew he was whining; he didn’t care.

“Get some sleep, Varian,” Quirin chuckled, more genuine now.

Varian dropped his head back against the pillow. He wanted to keep arguing in favor of getting a soda, but his dad was right: he was exhausted. Sleep was only a few minutes of closed eyes and quiet away, easy as it was to slip into while medicated. 

He listened as his father told him he’d be back later, as he and the other officer left the room. The door clicked shut quietly, and then it was only the hum of the air conditioning and the soft sounds of the hospital, muffled outside his room. Eyes closed, Varian sank willingly toward unconsciousness. 

So much was left to process, to sift through, like the charred remains of a burned-down house. The aftershocks of Hector’s betrayal would be rumbling through his town, his family, his father, himself, for a long time to come. But his mother had always been a champion of the “one day a time” philosophy, had practically worshiped at the altar of “just deal with what’s in front of you”. At the very least, it was a way to start.

But for now, at least, he could sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's up to you if Hector lived or died. I couldn't decide which was better, and leaving it open-ended lets me make up my mind later if I ever come back to this AU. Would be fun to do something with it involving Rapunzel and the gang... I think I just made Eugene's dad a mob boss? Huh.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading!


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